


sounds like she's singing

by Luthor



Series: offerings to the bees [3]
Category: American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 12:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16388099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthor/pseuds/Luthor
Summary: Prompt from tieflings: Misty and Cordelia have amomentin the rain.





	sounds like she's singing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tieflings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tieflings/gifts).



There is solace to be found in the greenhouse of Miss Robichaux's Academy, this Misty learns as soon as she steps inside.

Unlike the rest of the academy, where magic lines the walls like plaster, Misty feels it quick in the air around her. It’s fresh like a morning mist, a cool, damp feeling against the cheeks without there being any real chill or breeze. It is a living, growing, _breathing_ thing that pulls Misty in by the hands and plants a word inside her head that hadn’t been there before— _safe_.

It’s the only reason that she comes back, the reason why she stays, against all better judgement.

 

 

Cordelia is not used to sharing her space.

The academy has long since seen its heyday, and she has had no need for an apprentice witch to tend the garden with her— until recently, that is, and Misty falls into the role with ease. It’s no longer a surprise to find her down here, on nights like this, when Cordelia comes tap-tapping across the old stone floor, following the sound of playing music and quieter humming. She moves with one hand out to the table that she knows to expect, and stops once she finds it, fingers curling around the wrought iron.

As soon as she stops, the music quietens but not completely.

“Miss Cordelia,” Misty says from across the room, her voice a sheepish drawl that grows nearer as she speaks. “I’m sorry, I can turn it off. I didn’t mean to disturb you so late.”

“You didn’t,” Cordelia tells her, turning into her voice. “I was already up.” She tilts her head to the right, and there, just beneath the dulcet tones of Misty’s music, is the faint high-pitched singing of her garden growing – barely noticeable, unless you knew to listen for it. The sound draws a guilty pull to her brow; she’s neglected the space ever since she took her sight. “Thank you for taking care of them.”

She wishes she could see Misty’s face as she replies, “ _of course_ ,” like it’s nothing – like any one of her girls could do the same. And, they could, with training, if they showed the patience to learn. To Misty it comes naturally, and Cordelia is old enough that she recognises that with more wonder than envy.

“It’s the least that I can do,” Misty continues, her voice ebbing and flowing, and Cordelia imagines her in constant movement, looking from plant to plant, swaying in place to the music. “I’m real grateful for you letting me stay here like you are. I don’t know where else I could’ve gone, or how long I could’ve gone on hiding for, before—”

She cuts herself off with a sigh, but the sentiment that she’d been trying to convey lingers like a chill in the air.

“Don’t think I don’t appreciate your help, Misty, but I’m not asking you to earn your place at this academy. You’re one of us. You have as much of a right to be here as any one of these girls, I need you to know that. You belong here with your sisters.” Cordelia releases the table and holds her hand out, and it is with only minimal hesitation that Misty takes it.

The vision envelopes her as they usually do, visceral and churning, like warm liquid swarming in and then back out again.

She sees herself as though she’s hovering somewhere in the air above their heads, her hand outstretched and clasped tightly in Misty’s, who draws her outside into the night time rain. They’re laughing in that quiet way that people who don’t want to be disturbed by sleeping students laugh, and then they’re outdoors, barefoot, _drenched_ — dancing.

The vision leaves her with a full body shiver, followed by a warmth as Misty steps closer to her side.

“What did you see?” she asks, all curiosity, squeezing Cordelia’s hand.

Cordelia tucks the memory of the vision away like a sealed envelope into an inner-coat pocket. She’s already discrediting it, as every other vision she’s had has shown her a glimpse into the past, of events told, pockets of time that have already been pressed into the ether – unchangeable, like printed pages in a book. She feels her face grow warm with the thought that perhaps she’d brought the vision on herself – a glimpse into what she’d _like_ to have happened, perhaps.

This could prove a problem for her future divinations, if true.

“Miss Cordelia?” Misty presses.

“Why aren’t you wearing any shoes?”

There’s a hesitant noise, followed by something of an embarrassed laugh.

“Well,” Misty says, audibly wetting her lips. “It helps me feel more grounded. Here, especially.” Her voice wavers slightly as she turns, and Cordelia imagines her body twisting in place to properly take in her surroundings – she imagines all of that hair swaying about Misty’s shoulders, and represses the want to touch it. “This academy is,” Misty pauses, struggles for the right word, “it’s _grand_ , you know? A little _too_ grand. But just here, right here, it’s the strangest thing but it feels just like—”

She struggles again, and Cordelia helpfully supplies, “Home?”

Misty’s hand squeezes around hers.

“Home,” she repeats, fondness in her voice, and Cordelia swears she can see the smile on her face. “Yeah— I mean, why is that?”

“ _Magic_.” There’s a smile on her face when she says it, and Misty scoffs. “When I was a young witch coming into my powers, this is where I would spend the majority of my time. Some of my favourite memories are of this very greenhouse. I always loved being able to see the growth in not only my own craft, but in the things that I put my powers into – seeing what my care and nurture helped bloom into existence, how it made something _stronger_ , greater.”

Cordelia turns as though she were glancing around the greenhouse, and in a way, she feels as though she is. There are subtle vibrations in the air all around her, and none more familiar than those in her present surrounding. If she focuses just hard enough, for just long enough, she can see the entire greenhouse in blurry detail in her mind’s eye, for just a few seconds at a time.

Misty is the only anomaly— a vibrant, buzzing shape of pinks and greens and blonde, blonde hair.

Focusing too hard brings the sharp spike of a headache, brief but strong enough to disrupt the sight. Her body has always had little ways, like this, to remind her that she needs hone her skills before she over-extends them.

“I put so much of my time into this place,” she says, distant, and Misty’s hand is an overwarm and pleasant weight in her own. She smiles when slender fingers squeeze around hers – curious, experimental. “If you put that much of yourself into something, you’re bound to see it manifest again somehow. You give to the plants, and they give back to you. It’s the law of conservation.”

“That’s what makes you such a great teacher, isn’t it?” Misty drawls, and Cordelia hums to herself, amused. “Even now, you can’t turn it off.”

Misty sways into her with the joke, nudging their shoulders together, and Cordelia dips her head and holds her breath to keep from laughing.

Like this, they fall into the quietness of the greenhouse, with the low strumming of Misty’s music crooning from the opposite end of the room. Cordelia feels strangely as though she is _elsewhere_ , in a space so familiar and yet so unfamiliar. It isn’t just her lacking sight that causes the disorientation, if she could call it that. There’s nothing unpleasant about the feeling. If anything, given all that’s happening around them, being preserved within a bubble of time for just one night with Misty is a welcome reprieve.

“Miss Cordelia,” Misty says, her voice like a thin crack through the hazy atmosphere that Cordelia felt herself slipping into only seconds before. “Can I ask you a question?” Cordelia hesitates only briefly before agreeing. She realises suddenly that she hasn’t released Misty’s hand, and Misty makes no effort to untangle their fingers. The thought sets off a vibration in her teeth. “What are you doing down here so late, if I didn’t wake you?”

Silence follows the question.

In the darkness behind Cordelia’s mutilated eyes, the world could be a distant, unrecognisable thing, and yet Misty’s very presence denies it. Even now, in the obvious hesitation that Cordelia feels when Misty shuffles, as though shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she does not release Cordelia’s hand. Misty holds the silence, but she does not allow her question to be buried by it.

Cordelia can feel the intent of that, at least, like a visceral heat – like a barrier whose purpose is not to keep Cordelia _out,_ but rather to make her aware of its presence, its strength – around the shape of Misty.

When she opens her mouth to answer that question, however, her first instinct is to deflect.

She is headmistress of this academy, and as such her shoulders are to carry the weight of whatever burden threatens her girls and their lives here. She has capable young witches under her protection, and they will face their battles when the time is right, but they are her students, still, and Cordelia will not lean on them for matters such as this.

Matters which keep her up late at night, in that big, empty bed of hers, feeling alone and in the dark.

But, Misty is not her student, as welcome as Cordelia has made her.

And, besides, there’s something about her that draws Cordelia in, the way that she really doesn’t want to be drawn in, especially now.

(The way that she really _does_ want to be drawn in, and _in_ , and—)

There’s an undeniable pull to the girl that Cordelia has ignored, lest it distract her from the more important matters at hand. The problem with that is that Misty is altogether _unignorable_. Whether it’s the twang of her accent, or the honesty behind her humour, (or the way that she dresses, the way she moves— that mane of hair that’s meant for both hands and whispered sweet-nothings to become lost in), Misty draws attention to herself as though she demands it, in that subtle way that Misty doesn’t demand a thing from Cordelia, and yet manages to demand it all.

Cordelia surprises herself, then, when she finds herself answering honestly.

“I was having trouble falling asleep.”

Her words sit in the air around them while Cordelia holds her breath. She waits to taste the reaction in the atmosphere, how it might change or adjust to her confession, but Misty is a patient and forgiving listener. She tends to Cordelia’s fingers like she’s caring for one of her flowers— a carnation, maybe, or deadly nightshade.

“Thought you’d brew yourself up a sleeping draught, or somethin’?” Misty asks, and it’s a reasonable question, given Cordelia’s skill.

“I’ve never really been fond of them. Or, sleeping pills. Or, anything that forces me into the dark, really.”

The irony behind her words smarts.

Cordelia has willingly – often purposefully, and always selfishly – put herself in the dark for so long that it took her losing her sight to _see_ again.

If Misty were any crueller, she might even point that out, but she doesn’t. Isn’t. Instead, she drums her fingers against Cordelia’s hand and hums like she’s in thought. “Well, you know what always helps me?” she asks, and Cordelia makes a noise for her to continue. “I’ll give you a hint – listen real closely.”

As she says it, Misty draws on the hand that she’s still holding, guiding Cordelia slowly forward. It isn’t until they’re steps away from the big glass windows that Cordelia hears it – the sound of the rain, faint against the dirt outside, occasionally sputtering against the glass when the wind whips it in a new direction.

“It’s raining?” she says, like a revelation. They’ve had over a week of solid sun, if not longer, and Cordelia has had little time to stay in tune with the daily weather reports. “I didn’t even know it was due. Open one of those windows for me? I want to hear it.”

Suddenly, warmth against her ear, and a sweet, earthy scent that Cordelia instinctively leans into.

“I can do you one better than that,” Misty says, hot breath against her cheek, and then she’s gone. “But it comes with one condition.”

Before Cordelia has time to question her, she feels Misty against the front of her legs, most likely on her knees already. “Misty—” she startles, trying to take a step back, but a strong hand against the back of her knee keeps her from moving.

“That’s the condition – _these things_ have got to go.”

Misty taps a purposeful finger against the front of Cordelia’s shoes, and Cordelia gapes.

“You want me to take my shoes off?” she asks, like just voicing the question aloud will make Misty see reason.

“Yep,” Misty agrees, and is already helping Cordelia to lift a leg. Cordelia finds purchase on Misty’s shoulder, and it’s with more surprise than agreement that she allows Misty to remove her first shoe. Her bare foot returns to the greenhouse’s tiled flooring, a shock of cold shooting up her leg. “Doesn’t that feel better?” Misty asks, performing the same gentle removal of Cordelia’s second shoe in much the same manner. “Like you’re instantly more _connected_ to— well, to somethin’ instinctive?”

“I’m not sure I’ve read the theory on this before.”

“Ain’t nothing to read about,” Misty says, and Cordelia gets the impression that she’s smiling at her, not unkindly. “Just _feel_ it.”

Cordelia takes a deep breath, but all she feels is her cold feet.

“You’ll get the hang of it, don’t worry.” Misty uses Cordelia’s hand to steady herself as she rises. “Now, wait just here a moment.”

Cordelia reels at the sudden loss of contact, her hand still outstretched, as though in reaching. She tightens her grip on her walking cane and steadies only when she hears the tell-tale sound of the old greenhouse door squeaking open. The sound of falling rain permeates the air with the opening of the door, and a freshness that cools the tepid temperature of the greenhouse, bringing with it the sweet scent of wet soil.

“What’d I tell you?” Misty asks from the doorway, and Cordelia can tell she’s grinning. In an instant, she’s back by her side and taking Cordelia’s hand in her own. The other touches the hand that’s holding the cane, and Misty says, careful, “Let me set this to one side a moment?”

She’s already guiding it away from Cordelia’s grasp, and Cordelia lets it go without thought, until Misty starts leading her forward.

“Misty, what—”

“Just go with it,” Misty tells her. “Don’t worry, I got you.”

Cordelia attempts to protest again, when they’re just shy of the door.

“It’s raining,” she says, sputters, like she’s grasping for excuses. “We’ll get soaked.”

Misty brings all of the warmth rushing back in to her again, so close to Cordelia that her nose brushes against the shell of her ear, her words a low rasp over the sound of the rain and the fainter sound of the still-playing music.

“That’s _the point_.”

Flushed, Cordelia gives her protests over to the wind.

It takes barely seconds for the downpour to drench them. Cordelia almost slips, twice, until Misty slips an arm around her waist. She laughs without being able to stop herself, but once she’s started, she can’t stop it. Oblivious to Cordelia’s hysterics, or else unbothered by them, Misty sways and spins their bodies together like they’re dancing.

Cordelia can hear their bare feet wet in the grass, turning it to mud— can feel it pressing up between her toes.

When Misty next spins her, Cordelia tips her head up to the sky and lets it open upon her. The rain is a pleasant lukewarm that turns to cool the longer that she stands beneath it, until she’s shivering and panting, and pressing her face in Misty’s shoulder to keep her laughter hushed, to keep from getting dizzy.

“When’s the last time you did something like this?” Misty asks, pressing close to her ear, her words as gentle as a caress.

Her hands rise to cup Cordelia’s face, and they stop moving, like some great weight has taken hold of their feet and kept them here, in the importance of the moment. Cordelia’s shoulders heave as she tries to catch her breath. The rain showers them, forcing them closer together so as to be heard over the volume of it.

“Never,” she says, and her fingers rise to the wet tips of Misty’s hair, travelling up, up, and into it, drawing it back from Misty’s face. “I’ve never done anything like this,” and she means it. She means it so much deeper than she’s able to convey with her words, in that moment, and yet she’s sure that Misty understands.

In the moment, Cordelia is sure that she _sees_ Misty leaning in to kiss her, before lips cool and soft touch her own.

And, this, her racing heart would have her believe, she’s _never_ done before.

 

(Gods, but she will do it again.)

 


End file.
